It was Duvauchel, still rather unsteady on his pins, but wearing an undaunted look.
"What, Duvauchel!" asked Captain Daspry. "Aren't we deserting?"
"You're getting at me, captain! Let the beggars clear out of France first! I'll desert afterwards."
"But you've only one arm that's any good."
"A greaser's arm, captain ... and a French greaser's at that ... is worth two, any day."
"Pass me one of them rifles," said the gardener's son. "I know my way about with 'em."
Duvauchel began to laugh:
"You too, sonnie? You want one? You'll see, the babes at the breast will be rising up next, like the others. Lord, but it makes my blood boil to think that they're in France!"
All followed the captain, who allotted them a post along the parapet. The women busied themselves in placing ammunition within reach of the marksmen.
Marthe was left alone with her husband. She saw that the scene had stirred him. In the way in which those decent folk realized their duty and performed it without being compelled to, simply and spontaneously, there was that sort of greatness which touches a man to the very depths of his soul.